


The Diary of a Certain Magically Inclined Dragon Whisperer

by xiuxi



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Dragons, Female Protagonist, Gen, Mudcrabs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 18:11:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/600671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xiuxi/pseuds/xiuxi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fuck Dawnstar. Fuck Dawnstar with the spire of Septim the Third. Seriously. Fuck Dawnstar and the stolen horse she rode on - had she had legs and any kind of drive to speak of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Diary of a Certain Magically Inclined Dragon Whisperer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [twelvearms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/twelvearms/gifts).



_The fifth of Heartfire_ , Winterhold

They don’t know it yet, but I hate everybody. Every single one of them. I look at people and I seethe. I buy my bread from Inga at the store and fantasize about blood. This fucking town.  
  
This fucking country.

These fucking people.Fucking Nords.

If I could I swear off a single thing, just cast it off without leaving a trace, it would be being a Nord. We truly are the dumbest people on earth. Sure, the whole wide Tamriel is filled with moronic people, but Nords take the proverbial sweetroll. We are the people who built our national identity around beards. We live in places that no sane person would inhabit. Our men take pride in the fact that they can charge a mammoth head-on. Our women take pride in the fact that they can charge a mammoth head-on and then cook it in a tasty stew.

We are the country that put all our mages in Winterhold. Winterhold – the town of snow, snow and more snow. And mages. Nothing ever happens here. One would think that putting a bunch of mages together would change that, but no, nothing ever happens here. And nothing ever grows. The college is pretty much perennially barren.

I am there now; at the college, walking on permafrost. The college has a long tradition of mage storage. Generally, we Nords don’t want mages around, even at times when we get attacked by GIANT FUCKING DRAGONS EVERYWHERE. Generally, Nords want them all to freeze to death in their little grey mage tower, because they would do absolutely anything to avoid creepy mage cooties on their proud Nordic hardiness. Instead they all fire ineffectual steel arrows into the air, or walk around threateningly with an axe or two, when the dragons come. Much better.

Fucking Nords.

Nords are pretty much the sole reason that I am hiding here at the College under a funky smelling blanket. They are the reason that I am the bitterest Viking in the land. They are the reason I have to endure J’Zargo and Brelyna’s bizarre mating rituals. My brethren will tell you that you have the aptitude and that you should go join the College. Then you come here and you’re just stuck with all the other undesirables. Nords simply don’t revere people with power - unless it is people whose powers consist of wielding a giant hammer named Alfhaograrthur.

Instead of raging openly about the injustice we face and the utter stupidity of our Nordic kind, I have taken to sulking on a bed in a corner. Walking outside would bring me into the path of Colette’s Restoration Magic crusade or Tolfdir and his clumsy invites. There is only so much painful earnestness a girl can take. Honestly, people, you would hide too.

 

 

_The 22nd of Heartfire_ , Dawnstar

I got myself to Dawnstar. Fuck Dawnstar. Fuck Dawnstar with the spire of Septim the Third. Seriously. Fuck Dawnstar and the stolen horse she rode on - had she had legs and any kind of drive to speak of.

I hail from Dawnstar, as you almost can tell. Dawnstar is a town with absolutely no significance whatsoever. I’ve heard that Ulfric marked it out with a giant skull. Then he promptly forgot about it, because Dawnstar is so unremarkable that sheer boredom would kill him if he were to visit. No notable person has ever been from Dawnstar. It’s basically me and Rustleif and ten thousand miners.

And the dragons. Let me tell you a little about the dragons. I’m the Dragonborn. This means that a fight with a dragon is slightly less suicidal for me than for most others. One could say that the essence of scaly firebreathing runs in my blood. One could also say that I spend an unholy amount of time yelling monosyllabic noises and watching the creepy aftereffects. Dawnstar, of course, is a fucking dragon magnet. What they see in this place is anybody’s guess, but apparently it is something, because they come here with an annoying frequency.

It all started when I went to Helgen and got myself arrested. Thing is, I drink too much. If I didn’t drink, I wouldn’t have dreamt of going anywhere near Helgen and I wouldn’t have been arrested. Simple as that. Of course, if the Imperials didn’t have sawdust for brains I wouldn’t have gotten arrested either. Anyway, the Imperials were thinking of chopping my head off and a dragon kind of bailed me out. It would have been nice if it just ended there, but that was only the beginning. I have cavorted with dragons ever since.

Dawnstar provides ample opportunity to hang out with dragons. Every morning I go up in the woods to collect some snowberries for my alchemy project. Then I come back into town and have a chat with today’s dragon. Usually they are the strong but silent kind, but occasionally they talk. That gets boring fast. I take them down with my superior Destruction magic. Colette has got it all wrong with her Restoration this and that. Destruction is where it’s at.

The only problem is the reaction of the townies. People do not take kindly to the kind of havoc I unleash. They should be grateful for the opportunity to not become dragon toast, but people don’t think that way. They talk about witches and then they talk about vampires and then they grab the nearest torch and pitchfork. I am going to leave this godforsaken hellhole before it is too late. Dawnstar will not miss me.

 

 

_The 27th of Heartfire_ , Windhelm

It was a long walk, but it was worth it. I assembled some stuff for my alchemy project, and I managed to find a cave with some Draugr on which I could take out my budding aggressions. Draugrs are fun. They fall apart and make a funny little noise if you set them on fire. Then you loot their cave for interesting holy Viking stuff.

If there is something I hate more than Nords, it’s bards. If divine justice were a thing, bards would spontaneously combust. I am of the opinion that nobody should ever sing. Especially not Nords. Or Orcs. I’ve heard that there is a whole school of bards in Solitude. I’m never going there. Talk about nightmare town.

The bard at the Candlehearth Hall is moderately awful. I have heard worse, but I’m drinking. My rather generous feelings towards this bard might be due to the copious amount of Rotgut I’ve inhaled. I actually like Windhelm. Well, there is like and _like_ \- it’s hard to feel goodwill against the constant snow and darkness, but compared to the other hellholes up north, Windhelm is somewhat pleasant. For one thing, it has architecture, interesting murder cases, and the Dunmer have good taste in literature. So at least Windhelm has some class. And absolutely everywhere is better than Dawnstar. So there is that.

There is also Ulfric Stormcloak, unfortunately, who is the sole reason I could never live here. I met some of his merry men last night and if we want to talk Nords, those were the worst of them. They drink, they rag on the Dunmer, then they drink some more, and then they sing. Tearful ballads about the hardy Nords and their savior. Then they drink even more, rag on the Dunmer, and then they pass out. That’s Ulfric’s men for you.

I would go and join the Imperial army just to piss them off, but then I remember the Helgen incident and I rethink. I refuse to associate with people who want me dead and I refuse to associate with stupid people. One has to draw the line somewhere.

Next to drinking, bitching about Nords and alchemy, dragon-slaying is my favorite pastime. I had me some dragon yesterday. Noted scholars claim that dragons are profoundly intelligent creatures. I suspect that most noted scholars never met an actual dragon. Actually, dragons are scaly beasts, hellbent on destruction and general mayhem. Most of them communicate by breathing out fire towards the lowly humans. Some of them talk, which doesn’t enhance the experience of meeting them. Usually they talk a lot about being noble ancient creatures and then they try to kill you.

I got this opportunity, or quest if you must, from Ulfric’s pal Jorleif. Jorleif wanted me to go down to Bonestrewn Crest and slay the dragon there. Bounty was promised. I’m not the kind of gal to say no to free money, so of course I’m going. Off to Bonestrewn Crest I went, with the hope of greeting the dragon. The dragon didn’t answer. Havoc was wrought on innocent bystanders and innocent weeds. I pulled out my ice spikes and my ice storms . The dragon was slain and its soul devoured. Then I learned the Nordic grunt for frost breath. A savior was me.

Except I had to go back to Windhelm to claim the bounty and buy some more supplies. Going home after a hard dragon fight is never fun. There are bound to be wolves, bandits and murderous Dunmer assassins. This time it was trolls. Or one troll. Troll, singular. The good thing about being ambushed by a troll is that trolls generally aren’t that smart. The bad thing is just about anything else. They are strong, durable little morons. They cannot be reasoned with. And then there is the fact that they look like Ulfric on a bad morning.

Things weren’t looking up. I was low on health. I was even lower on magicka. I’ve never had any stamina to boast about. My only option was basically to run around and throw firebolts at the fucker. Dignity is something that one has to discard when one gets into magic; just ask Tolfdir if you don’t believe me.

The troll grunted its trollish grunt. I flung my firebolts in blind panic. One miss on my side and I was going to be troll dinner. It was getting dark. I longed for a warm hearth and some mead. The troll longed for troll dinner. We looked at each other. Our tired eyes met. The troll lunged forward and I ran for my life. So much for mutual understanding. I shot the last of my firebolts and the troll shrieked out in pain and fell down. I savored the stillness, collected the troll fat and headed back to the Bards and the murder tales in Windhelm.

I’m leaving tomorrow. I’m going south, where there might be a slight chance to see at least a glimpse of the sun. I need to be somewhere where snow isn’t the main feature. I want tundra and vegetation and flowers. I need to feel the warmth of sunlight on my back. Sometimes I dream of being a Khajiit. I want my roads to lead me to warm sand. Or some Skooma, if you must.

I have two things to do tomorrow. First, I have to go to the White Phial to pick up supplies. They have great stuff there. Then I’m going to go and see a boy about a thing. I’m curious about the boy but even more curious about the thing.

 

 

_The 12th of Frostfall_ , Whiterun

I have a special hate for Whiterun. It has this scary small town feel. Have you ever been stuck in a small town, desperate to leave but bound by loyalty and finances and a faint hope that the locals will not turn on you because of your magic? No? Trust me, it’s no fun.

Better towns have grand buildings, monuments or breathtaking vistas. Whiterun has Heimskr. He will follow you around and screech about how Talos never loved you and never will. Don’t mention the Dunmer or the war to him. You’ll never be able to shake him off.

There is not much to do in Whiterun, which adds to the general feeling of malaise. Of course, if you are into smithing and fighting with giant axes, then Whiterun has something for you; but for us weak and brooding mage types, it is boredom central. Sure, there is an inn, but there is an inn in every Skyrim hellhole, including fucking Dawnstar. There is also a tavern and that’s where the drunks are. Unfortunately, the tavern doubles as a hunting shop. That means that it is full of slightly intoxicated, axe-wielding, insane Nord hunters. I’ll take my chances elsewhere, thank you very much.

So what do I do in Whiterun? I flirt with Belethor and commiserate with Ysolda. I avoid anyone who thinks that clans are important and everyone who has a beard and wields an axe at the same time. In the mornings I leave my little room at The Bannered Mare and wander out across the tundra. Then I look at the sun. I collect Tundra Cotton until my hands chafe and I watch the mammoths stumble around from afar. The light around Whiterun is spectacular. It’s the only redeeming feature of Whiterun.

I go home when the dark comes and chat a bit with the Khajiit traders. They buy some loot from me and give me some Skooma and talk about magic. I think I could live in Elseweyr. Sometimes I wish I were a cat.

Then the reality of being a mage who is pretty much on the run for life sets in. I get involved in the clan wars and shouted at by the inbred morons. I get insulted by the Jarl’s little spiteful brats. A dragon appears in a camp somewhere and the Jarl sends me out without even a “Good luck!” as farewell.

“You know what's wrong with Skyrim these days?” Jon Battle-Born whispers as I pass by. I don’t reply to him because you know that it only sets him off, chief mansplainer of Whiterun that he is, but I know.

I know the thing that’s wrong with Skyrim these days and it’s not that people are obsessed with death. It’s that they don’t fear enough for their lives.

Nobody cares about their impending doom. Nobody obsesses over their coming death. They just live their lives and raise their chickens and collect their cabbages. They squabble over Ulfric versus the Imperials or over religion or the price of mead.

They do not know what kind of experiments I do in Arcadia’s Cauldron. They will look into my eyes but they don’t see the determination there. They do not know that one day one of them will set me off and then the whole town goes boom and there will be no more Olfrid, or Thorald or Vignald or Idolaf or Ulfberth.

People should fear more for their lives. That’s exactly what is wrong with Skyrim these days.

 

 

_17th of Frostfall_ , Riften

Riften is nice. Partly because I know that it’ll be a final destination of sorts for me and partly because I really love water. The town is filled with thieves and fish. There is not much difference between thieves and fish, but thieves smell slightly worse. So I stroll around the water and I collect Nirnroot and Blisterwort and I just look at things. It’s nice.

Maybe I should get married. People do that. Perfectly interesting people go to Riften and get married and then they think I should be caring about their new hubby Wulfgroth. I’m not. Marriage ruins things. Interesting people get boring and adventurous people get careful. No one wants to go out and throw fire sticks at dragons anymore. Such is the way of life, I suppose.

But maybe I should get married and boring. Settle down and stop chasing after dragons and artifacts. Get a little house and some Nordic style decorations. Brew my own mead, stew my own stews, smith my own axes, kill my own mudcrabs - that sort of thing. There are candidates, even. I have a list of prospective mates somewhere. This includes such charming prospects as Viola Giordano – nosiest granny in Windhelm; Octieve San – geriatric drunkard extraordinaire; and all of the miners, housecarls and mercenaries you’ll ever find in Skyrim proper.

So maybe I’ll pass. Besides, I’ve got things to do here.

I need to sneak into Elgrim’s Exilirs and finalize my experiment. Then I need to sneakily carry some stuff over the marketplace and set it up. And then I’ll wait. I will sit with my back against the South Wall and watch the rest of the night go by. Maybe someone will rob someone before dusk comes around. Maybe a dragon will howl in the background. I will not move because I need to be somewhat alert when morning comes around.

At precisely 7.50 am, Mjoll the Lioness will lead ten happy, little orphans to the Riften Fishery. The little orphans will be on a nice excursion and will finally have the chance to look at rotten fish. Meanwhile Gredlod the Kind will be alone in her study. She will be singing a nasty little tune and polishing some skulls, if I know her correctly. I will be out in a corner, lighting a fuse. There will be an explosion and the whole house will go boom. If everything goes according to plan, there will be no more Gredlod the Kind.

I expect great things from tomorrow morning. I have always wanted to take alchemy to the next level. I have a feeling that blowing up stuff - and people - might take me great places.

**Author's Note:**

> Great thanks to my wonderful, hardworking beta, Kastaka, who prevented much abuse of the English language.


End file.
